“Do you feel well?” asked Yamaguchi sharply.

“They were going to be married,” said Herries. He took another pull from the fifth of bourbon on his desk. It was getting almost too dark to see the bottle. “Since patriotism nowadays…in the future, I mean…in our own home, sweet home…since patriotism is necessarily equated with necrophilia, in that the loyal citizen is expected to rejoice every time his government comes up with a newer gadget for mass-producing corpses…I am sure the young lady will just love to have a pretty coffin. So much nicer than a mere husband. I’m sure the coffin will be chrome plated.”

“Wait a minute—”

“With tail fins.”

“Look here,” said the doctor, “you’re acting like a case of combat fatigue. I know you’ve had a shock today. Come see me and I’ll give you a tranquilizer.”

“Thanks,” said Herries. ‘‘I’ve got one.” He took another swig and forced briskness into his tone. “We’ll send ’em back tomorrow morning, then. Now don’t bother me. I’m composing a letter to explain to the great white father that this wouldn’t have happened if we’d been allowed one stinking little atomic howitzer. Not that I expect to get any results. It’s policy that we aren’t allowed heavy weapons down here, and who ever heard of facts affecting a policy? Why, facts might be un-American.”

He hung up, put the bottle on his lap and his feet on the desk, lit a cigarette and stared out the window. Darkness came sneaking across the compound like smoke. The rain had stopped for a while, and lamps and windows threw broken yellow gleams off puddles, but somehow the gathering night so thick that each light seemed quite alone. There was no else in the headquarters shack this hour. Herries had not turned on his own lights.

To hell with it, he thought. To hell with it.

His cigarette tip waxed and waned as he puffed, like a small dying star. But the smoke didn’t taste right when invisible. Or had he put away so many toasts to dead men that his tongue was numbed? He wasn’t sure. It hardly mattered.

The phone shrilled again. He picked it up, fumble-handed in the murk. “Chief of operations,” he said pleasantly. “To hell with you.”

“What?” Symonds’ voice rattled a bare bit. Then: “I have been trying to find you. What are you doing there this late?”

“I’ll give you three guesses. Playing pinochle? No. Carrying on a sordid affair with a lady iguanodon? No. None of your business? Right! Give that gentleman a box of see-gars.”

“Look here, Mr. Herries,” wasped Symonds, “this is no time for levity. I understand that Matthew Worth was seriously injured today. He was supposed to be on guard duty tonight—the secret shipment. This has disarranged all my plans.”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk. My nose bleeds for you.”

“The schedule of duties must be revised. According to my notes, Worth would have been on guard from midnight until 4 A.M. Since I do not know precisely what other jobs his fellows are assigned to, I cannot single any one of them out to replace him. Will you do so? Select a man who can then sleep later tomorrow morning?”